


The Course of Fate

by blowurs



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 21:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5065765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blowurs/pseuds/blowurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prince Bilbo Baggins of the Shire knows nothing outside of the old, mossy walls of the tower he's been trapped in for nearly all of his life. That is, until a handsome and charmingly chivalrous prince comes unexpectedly to his rescue. He asks for but one thing in return for his selfless act of heroism: Bilbo's hand in marriage. Prince Bilbo, desperately yearning to be freed, readily agrees to his proposition without hesitation. </p>
<p>But Bilbo Baggins certainly did not except the road of a prince's betrothed to be a perilous one, and he soon finds himself longing to be rotting away once more in that dreadful tower more than ever before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The King's Vision

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, my beautiful readers. 
> 
> So... New fic.  
> Hope you like it :)

King Thrain spoke a in low, guttural words as he grabbed a handful of herbs from the cauldron at his side, and threw them onto the fire.

Scented smoke rose. It blossomed, engulfing him in a whirlwind of color and sparks. 

_King Thrain looked down at his bloody hands. The halt of his sword slipped from his fingers, landing on the floor with a loud clunk._ _The heavy smoke around him obstructed his vision; tall flames licked at the now scorch tapestries that once decorated his grand throne room. The thrones have started to drip melted gold onto the blacken stone._

_The fresh smell of blood and burning flesh started to fill the air, the king looked down at the fallen pale solider laying at his feet, and step over it._

_King Thrain carefully stepped around and over the other pale soldiers and his own, their blood mixing on the stone floor. No one would be able to tell which is ours and which is of our enemies, thought the King._

_As he crossed over the doorway, he was no longer in his castle but outside of it instead_  

_Over what once an endless grassy plain now laid thousandsof men in dark blue armor, others were dressed in soft clothed dark greens and blues; the color of his kingdom; and pools of blood surrounding them all, over their bodies stood a pale man, with silver hair flowing as the winter wind blew. Legions of men in blinding crisp white armor stood behind him._

_Thrain’s eyes divertingly started to drift over the bodies of his Ereborian soldiers and their wives and children._

_Right at his feet, laid his wife with bleeding lacerations on her throats, splatters and sprays are crimson decorating her dark green and gold dress. Her eyes were wide but unfocused._

_Clasped into her ringed fingers was the little one that belonged to his youngest child, one who has not yet seen her eighth winter, but now never will. And beside her, his eldest son, Frerin. His mouth open in a silent scream_  

_The king felt his knees buckle and he hit the ground hard, unable to cry, unable to make even the smallest sound as if it had been gripped from his throat._

_The pale man started to approach the Ereborian king, inattentively stepping over the blood of his people._

_As he stood in front of Thrain, he smiled and leaned over, his lips merely a whispering distance from the King’s ear. His breath was hot and held the fetor of decay._ _The pale man tighten his hold on his halt and lunged forward the few inches separating him and the King, swiftly the tip of the sword pierce the King’s flesh until Thrain felt the cool halt touch his chest; then his vision darken._

A swirling breeze of color and noises forcefully ruffled the King’s long beard and dark blue robes. As he steadily opened his eyes and felt them roll forward, back into focus, he noticed his wife’s worriedly gnawing at her bottom lip.

“What did you see, my King?” She asked, grabbing his shaking hands.

“Our end.”


	2. Red Fire

"Prepare to feel the cold kiss of my blade." Thorin lightly pressed the wooden tip of his sword to his friend's neck, a smirk playing at his lips. "Any last words?" 

"Yes, actually. When was the last time you bathed?" Dwalin pinched his nose for emphasis. "You reek." 

"It isn't that bad," Thorin defended, leaning down to sniff at his loose blue tunic. 

Dwalin playfully pushed at him, forcing him to step back. "Yes, it is." 

"Fine," Thorin yelled, "Race you to the watering holes!" 

And with that, Thorin took off, already forgetting his wooden sword on the grass. He did not bother with looking back to see if Dwalin was following. Somehow, he knew he would. 

\-------

"Remind me again why you insist upon coming to these watering holes?" Panted Dwalin, struggling to catch his breath.

"Because I am in need of a bath, I thought that much was clear," Thorin retorted. 

"Yes, but why these. They are quite a ways from home," Dwalin said, still breathing heavily. 

"If you're afraid, just say so, Dwalin, there is no need to hide it," teased Thorin. 

"I'm not scared!" 

"No? Then prove it." Thorin's voice dipped to a challenging tone. 

For a moment, Dwalin's confidence wavered, and Thorin decided that this was probably a bad idea. He would never wish to inflict discomfort upon anyone, especially not his closest friend. 

"Maybe we should just-" But Thorin's words were lost as he looked up at his friend, and saw that Dwalin was clad in naught but his smallclothes. Feeling blood run to his cheeks and other places, Thorin quickly looked away. 

"So what, are you coming or not?" Dwalin teased, noticing how quickly their roles had been reversed. Stepping to the edge of the watering hole, Dwalin began to lower himself into the steaming water. He immediately cursed, and Thorin's eyes widened. 

"Sorry," Dwalin said hastily. 

Thorin had been raised by very respectable woman, who never so much as dared to look at someone with distaste, much less use that kind of language. But Dwalin was a village boy. His upbringing was much different from Thorin's. Those sorts of words and the crude confidence that came with it was not apart of the norm for Thorin, but it was something he often envied. 

Dwalin's family was respectable in their own way, as one might respect a good resource. Dwalin's parents owned the largest farm on Erebor; all the milk, eggs and fresh bread was produced under the same name. But being the son of the greatest farmer was not the same as being the son of the King, and Dwalin knew this full and well. 

"The water's too hot," complained Dwalin, returning to his position on the edge. "Maybe if I just use a little..." As he began to form the words, Thorin quickly reached his side and placed his hand on Dwalin's glowing fingers. 

"Are you insane?" Thorin's eyes were wide as he looked around, making sure no one was lurking about, or perhaps spying on them. "You know you are not to use magic," Thorin hissed incredulously, eyes wide with disbelief. 

Dwalin rolled his eyes. "Not you too. I get enough rules from Mama, I don't need you to remind me as well." 

"Maybe if you weren't so careless, I wouldn't need to!" Thorin snapped. 

"What's the good in being warlocks if we can't use magic at our will?" Dwalin shot back. 

Thorin stayed quiet. 

"Besides, it's just a little bit, to cool the water a tad. We're doing no harm, are we?" Dwalin turned to look at his friend, eyebrows raised. 

"I guess not..." 

Dwalin smiled, satisfied with his answer, and leaned over the water. Quiet, nearly silent sounds escaped from Dwalin's barely parted lips. Thorin noticed that whenever Dwalin practiced his magic, his fingers glowed red, which Thorin knew was a peculiar shade for any warlock, but of course he knew better than to ask. 

In a few moments the steam from the water's surface began to diminish, and Dwalin rose from his position on the ground and kicked off the remainder of his clothing and stepped into the water. 

"Perfect," He breathed. "Coming in?" 

Unable to meet his gaze, Thorin quietly shook his head. 

\-------

"I can't believe you didn't go in. Perfect temperature such as that comes once in a century, if you're lucky," Dwalin declared as he finished drying off. 

"It's quite alright, I plan to ask Master Ori to draw me a bath once we return," Thorin replied dismissively. He hesitated before adding, "you should put your robe on, lest someone spots us out here." He glanced around nervously, nose wrinkled at the thought of being spied on whilst wandering aimlessly about with a disrobed Dwalin. 

Dwalin remained quiet, carelessly shrugging his shoulders.

Dwalin had developed quickly, and had began puberty at an abnormally early age. Now at the age of twelve, he had a considerable amount of hair on his underarms and groin. He was clearly proud of it, given this was something that he often displayed shamelessly, even if it was just to Thorin. 

Thorin was distracted from his thoughts as he suddenly remembered the reason he was out in the first place.   
"Oh! I nearly forgot, Mama asked me to pay Master Oìn a visit, she is in need of some herbs." 

"Master Oìn is a strange man, his fire burns purple. I've never seen anyone with purple fire before," Dwalin commented, his tone laced with something akin to curious awe. 

"You know that purple is for practiced warlocks. Blue is for apprentice, and gold is for-" 

"I know that one!" Exclaimed Dwalin, interrupting Thorin's educated spiel. "Gold is for royalty; which is you in this case." 

Thorin nodded shyly, "Ahem. Yes. I still wear a shade of blue, however." 

Dwalin hummed in agreement, before the two of them fell into a companionable silence. 

Thorin didn't speak about the red fire, and Dwalin didn't ask.


	4. What strangle man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many thanks to my beta and friend, Yelta

Dwalin reached out to grab Thorin's elbow as the pair climbed the stone steps. 

"Are you sure this is it?" 

"Yes." Thorin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. His mother had taught him better. "It's the only house on the borders of Dale, convenient for both kingdoms." 

"It's not really a different kingdom when both are ruled by King Thrain." 

"Different people," shrugged Thorin. He never had been interested in his father's politics. 

Once they reached the door, Thorin gave a few firm knocks before he heard the shuffling of feet coming from behind it. 

An old man with a long white beard that seemed to match his long white robe embroidered with silver trims and swirls, opened the door with a faint smile. "Ah, young lord," the old man bowed his head, "and master Dwalin, to what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"Good day, Master Oin, mama sent me to receive the herbs that you have for her." Thorin said. 

"Yes, of course, of course!" He said, "Allow me a moment to get them for you." Master Oin made to return in the house with Thorin and Dwalin following behind, when Master Oin stopped in his tracks and blocked the doorway with his body. "It's best if you wait here, I'm in the middle of a deep cleansing, to purify my dwellings, you understand." He said easily. "I'll be just a moment." 

Closing the door behind him, Thorin and Dwalin waited, twiddling with their fingers and clothing. 

"Why do you think it's taking so long?" Dwalin said impatiently. "And why does he have white clothing, I thought blue and green were—"

At last, Master Oin returned, surprising Dwalin mid-rant, and pushed a little blue pouch into Thorin's hands. 

"It is because I live right at the border of two kingdoms, you see, Master Dwalin, sometimes it's best not to choose sides." 

Before Dwalin could respond, he quickly added, "That should be all, run along now." He said with an obvious urgency lacing his voice, before stepping back behind the large wooden door and shutting it. 

\-----------

The dry leaves crack and crinkle loudly as Dwalin and Thorin make their long way through the forest, neither saying so much as a word. 

Absentmindedly, Dwalin started snapping his fingers, leaving red sparks in their wake. "Why don't you ever use your magic?" He asked suddenly, causing Thorin to halt. 

"Why do you want to know?" Thorin snapped back, unintentionally harsh. 

"I don't know," Dwalin mumbled. "It's just that you don't—is it because you're still in a shade of blue?"

"Dwalin, I really don't wish to speak of this! Could we not, please?" 

"What is it with you and magic, Thorin?" yelled Dwalin, "Every time I breathe a word of it you lose your temper. Do you hate it that much?" 

Thorin didn't make a comment, he just turned in the other direction and stormed off, leaving Dwalin and his questions behind. 

\----------

Thorin stepped on the cold stone, making his way up the grand iron gates, two large ravens engraved on each gate.

The guards by the gates noticed Thorin right away, one of them yelling to the watchmen to open the gate immediately. 

"Good day, little lord. How was your outing?" One of the guards asked, a friendly welcoming smile decorating his face. He moved closer, making his metal plates screech. His armor was a tinted dark silver, with flying ravens across his chest. His leather underneath had a blue tint; the king's guards.

He had a long sword, that nearly touched the stone floor at his side. And in his other hand he held a large shield, with the king's bloodline in the center. Thorin could barely catch a glimpse of his name. 

"It was alright, not much to see," Thorin said dismissively. "Is my Father home?" 

"The King and Queen are in the castle awaiting your return, my lord." 

The guard moved to step back, and the sword scraped the stone, grabbing Thorin's attention.

"Would it be possible for you to teach me how to use that?" 

"This here?" Asked the guard, pointing to his sword. "With the King's approval, certainly." He smiled warmly. 

"What do I call you?" 

"You may call me Bofur." 

\---------------

"And what about you, Thorin?" Thrain asked from across the long wooden table. 

"I went to the waterholes with Dwalin," He answered with his mouth full of potatoes and meat.

"Manners," his mother quietly warned. 

"Today seemed like a wonderful day for the waterholes," encouraged Thrain, which only earned him a warning look from his wife. "But I hope you stayed close, you know your mother doesn't like you wandering off too far," he quickly continued. 

"While I am glad that you enjoyed the waterholes, I hope you didn't forget why I sent you out in the first place, Thorin," came his mother's firm voice. Her gaze was gentle but held an immediate urgency. 

"Of course not, mama." Reaching into his pocket, Thorin produced the small blue pouch that Master Oin had given to him earlier, memories of the strange silver tunic and his behavior flooding Thorin's mind, but he quickly pushed them back, dismissing it as usual elderly behavior. 

Thorin placed the pouch into his mother's outstretched hands. "Very good, my sweet boy." She placed a gentle kiss on Thorin's forehead and made quick work of standing from the table and making her way out of the dining area. 

Thorin hurried behind her. 

"Ori!" Called the King, and in a split second, the young servant hurried to stand beside the King's chair before bowing low. "Make sure Dis and Frerin are washed and put to bed, Thorin will be up in a moment." 

"As you wish, your Highness." Ori straightened, gently taking Dis' hand, making sure Frerin was following before he made his way toward the grand stone stairwell.


	5. Rearranging our fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to comment :)

"Little lad, get over here," Bungo called. 

Honey blond curls bounced as Bilbo ran over to his father, arms going up in a silent request to be lifted. Bungo lifted Bilbo onto his lap and hugged around his belly in an effort to keep the excited child still. 

"Watch this," he whispered into the young boy's pointed ear. 

The great doors of the King's Hall opened with a bang, two guards taking great strides as they crossed the room. They bowed as they stood in front of the King. 

"King Bungo," one guard said, while still facing the floor. "the King of Dul Guldur has come to meet with you. He brought Prince Azog with him."

"Send them in," the King said. Both guards rose, turned on their heels and walked through the great doors. 

A moment later, a tall man with pale clothing walked into the hall, with unspeakable respect. A young boy following close behind, as pale as his father and no less respectable. A boy that knew his worth at such a young age. 

"Bungo," said the pale man, a smile teasing on his thin lips.

"You are a hard man to reach. Is Dul Guldur that far?" 

"Not at all, my old friend." 

At that King Bungo diverted his eyes to the young lord. “And you must be Azog. Lord Azog.” 

He looked back at the pale King. “He’ll be a powerful one.” 

“And thus, I am here.” 

"I was beginning to think that you missed my company, you can understand why I am upset, don't you?”

“Of course your company is forever dear to me, old friend, but this is an urgent matter.” 

“I am listening...” 

“We are old men — great kings — but our lives are slowly leaving us. If there is any hope for our great kingdoms, we must unite our forces and — ” 

“Unite our forces? Are you referring to my son?” Shocked, the King stared at the small child in his arms. “I can not support this!” 

“Listen, old friend, please understand that this was a hard decision for me as well, but who else is really worthy of the hand of a Royal than another Royal? Why scout for a suitable partner when our sons have had each other since birth? They know of and trust each other. Now, I do understand that Bilbo has only seen eight winters, but I swear this is the right thing.” 

King Bungo wondered for a moment whether the pale King might be right. At the mere age of eight Bilbo was far away from the proper courting age. But being a prince of Hobbiton, plenty of suitors were sure to claim false love for him to have even the slightest bit of the power that came with being Bilbo’s chosen. King Bungo did not want to make Bilbo suffer such heartbreak. 

“And if I were to agree to this outlandish plan, what then?”

“We will wait until our sons become of age, and they will court. Mark my words, it was meant to be. What we are doing is merely speeding what has been destined to happen. It is fate.”

The pale King smiled and glanced at the little boy in the King's arms, he had grown quiet and still, staring back into the dark silver eyes that regarded him thoughtfully. 

“Do we have an agreement?” The pale King asked through a tight, thin smile. 

King Bungo stood from his throne, placing his son on the warm golden seat, going down the steps to stand in front of the pale King. 

“Do we?”

The pale man outstretched his thin hand, Bungo reached out cautiously. 

Suddenly the pale King reached forward and took hold of Bungo’s hand with an iron grip. 

King Bungo gasped.

A roaring laughed echoed throughout the grand throne room, startling both of the young princes. 

“I didn't mean to frighten you, old friend," said the pale King, “I am merely excited for what the future will hold for us.” 

Bungo looked at the pale man, really looked, and he blinked once… twice. And he saw fire, silver fire dancing in his eyes and smirk, a sharp smirk. 

What King Bungo didn't mention was that he had gasped not out of fright, but at the touch of the pale King, of the feeling of nothing but absolute and utter cold.


End file.
